It was a funny thing, how the rain spoke like an old, long lost friend. It called to me in hushed, placid tones, familiar, yet frigid. Each protracted whisper a gentle reminder of a half-healed maiming. How dare this falling water presume to take her voice? How dare it speak to me? Have I not heard enough? Through this mocking noise I can clearly make out the shape of her mouth and the water dripping down my hair feels like fingers and her lips pressed to my ears, whispering, taunting, reminding me that she, my friend of old, is lost, gone. She fell out of the sky and into my hands and dripped through my fingers, all in a moment, leaving me cold and shocked and shivering. I stand here in the street, fuming at this calm rain, hoping it would explode into a furious storm. That it would scream and spew profanities and hate and anger, but it does not. It only speaks. Quiet, steady, it speaks.
Here we find some written drippings of mine. Some might be good. Others might be worse. I don't really know.
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